


since we've no place to go

by Timjan



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Christmas, Crooked Exchange, Crooked Exchange 2019, First Time, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Oral Sex, Prompt Fill, Snowball Fight, Snowed In, Treat, White House Era (Crooked Media RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-15 03:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18490552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timjan/pseuds/Timjan
Summary: On Christmas of ‘09, Tommy and Lovett get snowed in together.





	since we've no place to go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moogle62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, moogle! I mean, uh, what? _April!?_ Oh well. It’s never too late/early for a Christmas story, am I right?
> 
> The (somewhat ironic) title comes, of course, from the Christmas/winter song _Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!_.
> 
> Please don’t share this outside fandom spaces.

It’s nice to be alone. It’s the 24th of December, and Lovett has his apartment to himself for the first time in a few weeks. For the first time since Tommy moved from living on Favreau’s couch to living on one of Lovett’s couches instead. It makes sense for him to stay here, even though Favs’ place is _much_ bigger, because the plan is for him and Lovett to start looking for a new place to live together.

Lovett has wanted to move for ages, and he and Cody had spoken loosely about maybe getting a place closer to Pennsylvania Avenue together more than once, but nothing ever came of it. So a newly single Tommy eager to split the rent with someone is a godsend. But a heartbroken Tommy in a tiny apartment is less so. Lovett’s happy to help out a friend, but he’s also happy to have Sad Tommy out of his hair for a few days.

Tonight, surrounded by the blessed quiet that comes with an empty apartment and a world covered in white, Lovett’s tinkering with a stand up routine that he might take to the Town Tavern some day, if it turns out any good. Tomorrow he’s gonna do the traditional “Jewish Christmas” with a few DC friends: Chinese food and a movie. And then he’s just gonna rela-la-lax until it’s time to go back to work, sooner than he’d like.

Lovett’s hard at work perfecting a joke about the Copenhagen Climate Change Accord that the president had refused to put into a speech, when the doorbell rings. _What the fuck?_ Who the hell comes knocking at someone’s door at nine in the evening on the day before Christmas?

When Lovett opens the apartment door, there is Tommy, looking like nothing so much as a sad, wet dog. His hair is plastered to his forehead with melting snow, and his jovially ruddy cheeks stand in sharp contrast to his forlorn expression.

“You have a key,” Lovett points out.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Tommy non-sequiturs back.

For a ridiculous moment, they just stand in silence on each side of the doorway, as Tommy’s duffel bag drips on the door mat.

“Uh, come in,” Lovett says at last. “I take it your flight got cancelled.”

Tommy puts down his dripping bag right inside the doorway, and makes an abortive movement as if he was about to give Lovett a hug.

“The trains aren’t running either,” Tommy says. His lower lip quivers a little.

Lovett looks out the window. Yup, that’s a lot of snow.

“So, uh, what’s the plan?” Lovett asks.

“I signed up for some kind of text alert for when the trains,” Tommy begins, before he has to pause for a gigantic yawn, “start running again. So best case scenario, I get home in time for Christmas dinner tomorrow. More likely, you’re stuck with me. Merry Christmas.”

Tommy’s voice breaks on “Christmas,” and Lovett pretends he didn’t see Tommy surreptitiously wipe at his eye.

“Okay,” Lovett says. “Okay. You look like you need to sleep. You can take my bed tonight, it’s fine. The bedclothes are clean…ish. Do you want me to change them?”

“No, that’s… as long as there are no Diet Coke cans in there, I’ll be fine. Thank you, Lovett.” Tommy’s voice is still threateningly thick, and he reaches out to awkwardly pat Lovett on the arm, in some sort of I-know-you-don’t-like-hugs hug substitute.

“Don’t mention it.”

As Tommy fishes his dopp kit out of his bag and goes to brush his teeth, Lovett steps out on the landing to make a phone call. Then, with Tommy snoring softly between Lovett’s sheets, Lovett goes to run some errands.

\---

Lovett is woken up the next morning by a very loud “Holy shit!” coming from the kitchen. He gets up from the sofa he’s spent the night on and steels himself for the schmaltz he’s undoubtedly about to experience, before wandering kitchenwards.

Indeed; Tommy had been on the verge of tears yesterday, but now he’s fully crying in earnest, happy tears running slowly down over his Michelle Pfeiffer-cheekbones.

“Oh, Lovett!” he sob-exclaims when Lovett wanders in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “This is… wow. You’re the _best_! Where did you even…? _When_ did you even…? I mean, holy shit, dude, you didn’t need to…”

Lovett’s first impulse is to say “Don’t mention it,” again, but he supposes that covering the kitchen – and the rest of the apartment, for that matter – in fake snow, multiple wreaths of different levels of tackiness, and every little Santa, reindeer and snowman figurine one could find on a late Christmas Eve shopping run, _is_ worth a mention.

And today, Lovett’s apparently not avoiding that hug, either. As soon as Lovett gets within reach of Tommy’s long arms, he’s pulled into a bone-crushing embrace like a wayward asteroid tumbling too close to a black hole. And like an asteroid entering the event horizon, Lovett gets completely swallowed up by Tommy’s mass. God, he’s so _tall_ , this is ridiculous. And he smells good. Dangerously good. Good enough to make an asteroid _never_ want to leave.

“Wait ‘til you see the tree,” Lovett mumbles, extricating himself from Tommy’s warmth and solidity.

“There’s a _tree_?!”

Lovett avoids Tommy’s shiny eyes by leading the way back to the living room. And there stands the tree in question, a plastic abomination in hot pink, covered in 50% off American flag-based ornaments, complementary candy canes, and blue string lights, crowned with a novelty Yoda tree topper. When Tommy sees it he first gasps, then he snorts a laugh, and then he swallows multiple times.

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Tommy says at last, voice breaking again despite his swallows. “Lovett, this is… I’m gonna help you host the _best ever_ Seder next –”

“Alright, let’s go check the stockings,” Lovett cuts in, already on his way back to the kitchen.

Lovett had had no idea that Tommy’s teary gratitude would be so hard to bear, or he wouldn’t have done all this. Oh, fuck, who is he kidding, _of course_ he would still have done all this. In a trade off between giving Tommy the Christmas Day that he deserves, and Lovett feeling a little awkward, Tommy will win out every time.

“No, wait!” Tommy yells from behind Lovett. “Since you have a stocking too, Jo-hhh-n, I have to put something in it first! Go wait in your room.”

And so, Lovett has to sit on his unmade bed and breathe Tommy’s scent tantalizingly intermingled with Lovett’s own, as Tommy audibly rummages through his belongings outside. This is dumb. The two of them already exchanged gifts last weekend, when Lovett’s parents came to visit for Hanukkah.

When Tommy finally yells out, “Okay, you can come now!” Lovett is out of his room quick as lighting.

“So… why the oven, man?” Tommy asks, beaming at Lovett when he reappears in the kitchen. At least he’s stopped crying.

Lovett glances over at the oven, where two Christmas stockings are hanging from the handle, a green one bearing the name “Thom,” and a weird, overly large yellow one for “John.”

“That’s the closest thing to a fireplace I have,” he shrugs. “I considered the TV for the family-gathering-around-in-the-evening factor, but the stockings would be in the way if we wanted to watch something. And that poor oven is just ecstatic about being of _some_ use for once.”

Tommy laughs. “Makes sense. All right, are you ready?”

Lovett’s yield is mostly the candy canes and chocolates that he put in his stocking himself, but the bicycle repair kit and the well-thumbed paperback of _The Diary of a Nobody_ (a book that Tommy has tried to get Lovett to read for _ages_ ) are nice surprises. The book especially – Lovett knows how attached Tommy gets to the physical copies of the books he likes; parting from this one must have been a bit of a struggle.

When Tommy pulls out an orange and small stack of scratching tickets from his stocking, he starts tearing up again.

“You talked to my mom,” he sniffles; it’s an inference, not a question.

“Yeah,” Lovett admits, suddenly self-conscious about it. He shrugs again, an it’s-no-big-deal gesture, this time. “Verisimilitude is important, you know…”

“Ergo the pink tree,” Tommy deadpans.

“Precisely! Louise told me it’s not a real Christmas without a fuchsia monstrosity.”

\---

As the day goes on, Lovett is keenly aware that Tommy could leave at the drop of a hat, if and when he gets the news that he’ll be able to go home after all. Tommy keeps throwing furtive glances out the window, checking on the blizzard, and when Lovett comes back from a visit to the bathroom, Tommy has his phone out. Against himself, Lovett finds himself selfishly wishing that the trains will stay stranded and the planes will stay grounded. So much for “it’s nice to be alone.”

It’s not that Lovett would ever begrudge Tommy going home to the family Christmas of his dreams, it’s just… Well, what is it, exactly? Lovett cancelled _his_ plans for today to be with Tommy, and now that they’ve gotten through the drippy awkwardness of Tommy seeing what Lovett has done for him, Lovett is free to enjoy the results of his efforts. He had liked decorating the tree as quietly as possible last night, imagining Tommy’s glee when he’d get to see it, but he hadn’t fully anticipated the domesticity of companionably Christmasing together, _or_ how much he would like it.

Lovett even gets _fully_ into Christmas cooking, manically checking and double checking the temperature of the turkey – ham would have been a goyish bridge too far – roasting in the oven. As Lovett kneels on the floor, peeking between “Thom” and “John” at their dinner-to-be, Tommy, in charge of the mashed potatoes, alternates between humming Christmas songs and laughing at him.

“Jon Lovett, master chef,” he says, his voice striking a teasingly fond note that evokes some of the awkwardness of the morning for Lovett. “Who knew?”

“I specialize only in Christmas food,” Lovett returns primly, “and as I don’t usually celebrate Christmas, that leaves people under the impression that I can’t cook. Hey, _hey_ , look, it’s 165 degrees now! Help me get this bird out of its coop!”

\---

By the time they’ve finished stuffing themselves with homemade turkey and store-bought gingerbread, the blizzard has died down a bit. Lovett is on tenterhooks, expecting a text alert any minute, but when none has come by sunset, he surprises himself by suggesting a snowball fight. He needs to _move_ , get out from the tiny apartment, and throwing snow around is as good an excuse as any.

Tommy is game, of course. “I’m gonna _pummel_ you,” he declares, and as soon as they get out, bundled up to the teeth, he proceeds to do just that.

“It’s not fair, you’ve perfected your aim with all that shooting hoops with POTUS,” Lovett complains, as he’s hit squarely in the face _once again_.

“You’re always welcome to join our games,” Tommy shoots back, easily ducking Lovett’s returning salve. Then, still crouched over, he charges at Lovett and tackles him into a bank of snow.

“Un-be- _lie_ -vable!” Lovett sputters indignantly as he comes up for air, spitting snow from his mouth, Tommy guffawing above him. “Get _off_ me, you big brute!”

But Lovett gets the last laugh in the end. Before they return inside, Lovett surreptitiously scoops up a little pile of snow that he then hides behind his back, walking a few steps behind Tommy. As they ascend the stairs to Lovett’s apartment, Tommy starts stripping off his layers of jackets, hoodies and scarves. When he’s down to only his t-shirt, Lovett sprints up to him, pulls back the neckline and pours his half-melted handful of snow down Tommy’s back.

Tommy shrieks hilariously and swings around at Lovett, who’s ready to greet him with his most angelic smile.

“You’re such a _monster_ ,” Tommy admonishes, but even though he’s mostly successful at tampering down a smile, he can’t stop the corners of his eyes from crinkling up in poorly hidden delight.

\---

The moment the apartment door closes behind them, Tommy dumps his collection of outerwear on the floor and tears off his wet t-shirt. In the cramped hallway, Lovett is suddenly inches away from Tommy’s bare back, skin glowing crimson wherever the snow made contact, muscles flexing as Tommy tosses the wet t-shirt into the bathroom.

“I’m gonna go take a shower to try to get warm,” Tommy declares. “And _you_ can make this up to me by making me a cup of hot chocolate.”

Then, Tommy turns around. And look, Lovett works with oodles upon oodles of attractive Obama bros, the White House is practically teeming with them; he has learned to keep his… appreciation of the male physique off his face, just like he can mostly keep the gay out of his voice. But he’s not usually presented with his co-workers’ physiques quite this flagrantly, so no one should judge him for being unable to stop himself from momentarily letting his gaze travel from Tommy’s pronounced pecs, over his surprisingly dark little nipples, hardened from the cold, and down to his abs. Thankfully, Lovett catches himself before going any lower, and he forces his eyes up to Tommy’s face.

Tommy’s face, which is flushed – from the cold? – and has a tiny furrow between what passes for his eyebrows. When Lovett meets his eyes, a beat too late, Tommy makes this little noise, a soft “oh” of thoughtful surprise.

“Unless you want to join me,” he says, then, his voice weirdly deep.

“Unless-I-want-to-join-you- _what_?”

Tommy’s flush deepens. “Never mind. Go fix up that hot chocolate, why don’t you?”

\---

What the _hell_ was that!? Still confused, Lovett pours milk into a pot. Tommy has never – never been weird about Lovett’s sexuality before, never mocked him. So Lovett’s inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt now, too. As the milk heats up, Lovett takes out his phone to refresh his memory of the recipe for hot chocolate à la the Vietors that he had Thomas Frederick Vietor _III_ text him yesterday.

But if Tommy’s… offer?… wasn’t, at best, a poor attempt at a I’m-totally-down-with-the-gays joke, then what _was_ it, Lovett asks himself as he rummages through the cupboard for the bag of cocoa mix that he _knows_ he has, somewhere. His kitchen isn’t even remotely well-stocked, it _shouldn’t_ be this hard to find.

And _worse_ , now that Tommy has dangled the possibility of a… sexual component to his and Lovett’s relationship, even if it was just in jest, Lovett can’t stop thinking about it. _Or_ about their moment together in the snow bank, less than fifteen minutes ago. It had only lasted for a few seconds, and Lovett had thought nothing of it as it happened, but now his mind keeps returning to the memory of Tommy looking down on him, straddling him, thigh against thigh, holding him down.

As he shakes a dash of salt into the pot of chocolaty goodness, Lovett shakes himself too, trying to dislodge the memory. Objectively it works, but subjectively it’s a backwards slide; now Lovett is no longer remembering something that actually happened, but instead imagining a similar set up – Tommy on top of Lovett, smirking down at him – but with way less clothes involved. And, Lovett’s brain helpfully supplies, Tommy is actually naked, _right now_ , less than ten feet from where Lovett is pouring a shot of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey into each of the mugs of hot chocolate.

When Tommy appears in the kitchen, looking soft in sweatpants and a Kenyon College hoodie, his hair a mess, the only thing left in the chocolate preparation process is to fill the remaining space of the cups to the brim and beyond with marshmallows. Lovett does so, feeling self conscious with Tommy’s eyes on him.

“Mmm, smells good,” Tommy says, with a leer. (No, that’s probably not actually a leer, Lovett’s just being weird.)

“What do you want to do now?” Lovett asks brusquely, thrusting Tommy’s mug at him with so much force that a few of the marshmallows spill over, tumbling down to the floor.

Tommy shoots him a quizzical glance before bending over to pick up the fallen confections. Lovett tries not to think about other scenarios in which Tommy might bend over, of what type of exercises that core strength of his could facilitate.

“Maybe we could watch a movie?”

\---

Unsurprisingly, Lovett doesn’t own many Christmas movies. It’s either Gremlins or Die Hard, really. Tommy goes for Die Hard, of course, and this day is for Tommy, so sure. They’ll watch a stupid action movie from the 80’s that Lovett doesn’t even know why he owns a DVD copy of.

Lovett tries to act natural as he sits down on the sofa next to Tommy. How does one friend, again? Fuck, living with Tommy is gonna get _super awkward_ if this keeps up. Tommy, for his part, seems completely at ease. Well, his eyes well up again when he takes his first sip of the hot chocolate, but he doesn’t say anything this time, and slowly, Lovett relaxes a bit.

Then, about ten minutes into the movie, a random dude at the Christmas party kisses Bruce Willis’ John McClane on the cheek, right by the mouth, and Lovett freezes. Shit, he had forgotten about that. He should have insisted on Gremlins.

As McClane touches his cheek incredulously, Lovett shoots a hopefully discreet look over at Tommy, three feet away on the sofa. Thankfully, he looks completely unperturbed by the gay-adjacent PDA. Less thankfully, his cheek looks eminently kissable.

It takes Lovett more time – and more Fireball – to relax this time. And it doesn’t help that Tommy has reached over to the Christmas tree to grab a candy cane that he’s now leisurely sucking on, absentmindedly sliding it in and out between his lips. _Jesus Christ_. Lovett keeps his attention on the TV, and miraculously, an hour into the movie (when Tommy’s candy cane is finally long gone), he’s tranquil enough to blurt, “Good idea, start flirting with the bad guy. Nothing bad can come of that,” as commentary on the walkie-talkie banter between McClane and Alan Rickman’s villain Hans Gruber.

“Ah, but who could resist the dulcet tones of Alan Rickman?” Tommy counters, and there’s that leer-not-leer again.

Lovett blanks, and in the end he only mumbles a belated, “True that.”

\---

Five minutes later, McClane’s estranged wife stares down the villain, and when he insults her, she counters with, “I don’t enjoy being this close to you.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer to avoid my husband’s new boyfriend, too,” Tommy quips.

Lovett’s inordinately gratified by Tommy playing along, and from then on it becomes a running joke between them. When McClane jokingly calls the bumbling policeman who’s his only point of contact with the outside world “babe,” Lovett echoes “‘Babe’!? How _dare_ you, John? You’re gonna break poor Hans’ _heart_!” and Tommy says, “Yeah, McClane really gets around.”

Several explosions later the bumbling policeman’s even more bumbling superior gets prissy with McClane for playing with C-4 explosives, and McClane snipes back that he’s “not the one who just got buttfucked on national television.”

Lovett winces, unable to make a joke about such blatant homophobia, but moments later, the bumbling policeman – Powell – actually says the words “I love you,” out loud, on the screen, and McClane responds with “Yeah, thanks, partner,” and that’s too delightful to not riff on for a while. So Lovett does, until Tommy cuts in with, “Yeah, once this is all over, one of _them_ is definitely getting buttfucked _off_ national television,” wiggling his semi-eyebrows suggestively.

And okay, that’s Lovett’s line, apparently. He reaches for the remote, and pauses the movie.

“What the hell was that?” he says, trying to keep his jumble of emotions out of his voice.

Tommy looks at him uncomprehendingly. “What was what?” he asks.

“That… that _joke_ , Tommy! What was _that_! It’s… it’s kind of fucking _weird_ for a straight _bro_ to… to make _jokes_ about… about buttfucking!”

Lovett expects Tommy to protest that they’ve been joking around about gay stuff for, like, half an hour by now, and is already gearing up for his rebuttal.

But no. Tommy’s response is a quiet, “I’m not.”

“You’re not what?” Lovett blurts, genuinely disoriented.

He and Tommy stare each other down for a few seconds. Then Tommy says, voice quivering in a whole different way than it did this morning, “I’m not a straight bro. I’m a… I’m a bi bro, I guess.”

_Ho. Ly. Shit._

“Okay,” Lovett says, trying to compose himself, “okay. I’m sorry, _what_?”

“I’m bi, Lovett.”

Is the room spinning? The room is probably not spinning.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lovett asks in a small voice. Now _he’s_ the one who’s on the verge of tears. What a fucking rollercoaster of a day.

“Hey, hey, Lovett, _hey_ ,” Tommy says, leaning across the sofa, planting a hand on Lovett’s arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Lovett sniffles. “It’s… it’s fine,” he forces himself to say, internally kicking himself. No one should ever come out before they’re ready; he knows better. He tries to keep the petulance out of his voice as he goes on, “I don’t mean to say that you should have come out to me if you didn’t feel… didn’t feel _comfortable_ or _ready_ , or whatever. It’s fine.”

Tommy moves closer, puts a tentative arm around Lovett. Lovett surprises himself by letting it happen.

“When I was with Katie,” Tommy says, explaining himself even though Lovett had tried to say that he didn’t need to. “I thought it was a moot point. Or… I guess I sort of thought that if I just _only_ identified as Katie’s boyfriend, as Katie’s fiancé, then that’d help make our relationship work even though, you know… it didn’t. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to tell you ever since, you know… and now I am, I guess.”

Lovett’s brain is slowly catching up with him. “Hey, wait,” he says, bracing himself as the world shifts on its axis. “So, if you’re actually bi, than what the hell was that shower comment-invitation-thing about?”

“Oh, yeah. That.” This close, Lovett can practically _feel_ Tommy blushing. “That was, uh, heavy-handed.”

Tommy starts to withdraw his arm from Lovett’s shoulder. Lovett grabs for it, holds it in place, but leans back far enough to look Tommy in the eye.

“Did you mean it?” he asks.

In response, Tommy slowly closes the space between them.

\---

When they break apart, Tommy – holy fuck! – slides down to the floor.

“Restart the movie,” he says, his voice heavy with that low tone that Lovett can now recognize as arousal.

“Jesus, Tommy. Are you sure?” Lovett asks.

“One hundred percent,” Tommy insists, licking his lower lip. “I’ve been imagining doing this ever since you first pressed play.”

“Fuck! So _that_ was what that fucking candy cane was about, eh? Well, alright, then.”

Lovett leans back and lets Tommy get to work at getting his fly open. When Lovett gets the movie going again, one of the first lines they hear is some idiot of a minor character saying, “Oy, let’s be straight, okay?”

“Nope!” Tommy responds gleefully. Then he sinks down on Lovett.

It’s hard to follow what’s happening on the screen with Tommy – Lovett still can’t believe that this is happening – on his knees, especially as this definitely isn’t Tommy’s first rodeo; his tongue expertly explores Lovett’s dick, and when he finds something that Lovett likes, he’s able to strike the perfect rough-but-not- _too_ -rough balance, still going tantalizingly slow. Despite himself, Lovett gets a little lost in the pleasure – most of what’s going on in the movie right now is just a load of talking – but he forces his attention back again and again, because getting to glance up at a Lovett absorbed by the story playing out on the TV is obviously part of the fantasy for Tommy.

And it sure is something, Tommy on the floor in front of him, hard at work, John McClane hunting down bad guys on the screen. Very macho. Very subversive.

“This would have been even weirder with Gremlins playing,” Lovett points out, pleasure and whiskey cancelling out what little of a brain-mouth filter he usually has.

Tommy snorts around Lovett’s dick, has to come up for air.

“Yeah? Maybe try that next time?”

Lovett’s head is already spinning with the idea of a “next time,” and then, just as the shooting starts back up, Tommy speeds up. For a couple of frantic minutes Lovett bucks and keens on the sofa, his hand in Tommy’s hair, Tommy’s strong arms on his thighs, pinning him, and then Lovett throws his head back and comes, to the sound of glass exploding.

When he looks back down, Tommy is wiping his hand across the smuggest grin Lovett has ever seen on him.

\---

When Tommy climbs back onto the sofa, he refuses to let Lovett reciprocate (well, beyond a few kisses, where Lovett can taste himself in Tommy’s mouth).

“Let’s finish the movie and we’ll take care of me after,” he says.

Lovett narrows his eyes. “Is that some kind of kink for you? The waiting?”

Tommy manages to blush and leer – yeah, that’s definitely a leer – at the same time. “Maybe?”

So, gorging themselves on the leftover marshmallows, Tommy’s arm once again around Lovett (Lovett once again allowing it), they sit through several more explosions, a Christmas tree falling over, and Hans Gruber falling to his death, Disney Villain style. When they get to the end of the movie, the tempo slows down and the music swells as McClane and his “partner” Powell meet for the first time, going in for a hug.

“This movie really _is_ gayer than I remembered it,” Lovett points out.

Tommy clears his throat.

“I didn’t mean it like that, you perv,” Lovett laughs.

Tommy wiggles his eyebrows again. “I can make any movie gayer for you, if you want.”

Lovett shoves at him, and goes to grab a candy cane from the tree.

\---

Half an hour later, in Lovett’s bed – no one will have to sleep on the sofa tonight – Tommy proves himself more than proficient at working Lovett open, too. His fingers are perfect, moving softly but with purpose.

“You’re full of surprises,” Lovett teases, ruining the effect a little by following it up with a whine of pleasure. “Or should I say sur- _bi_ -ses?”

“You definitely should _not_ ,” Tommy deadpans, but just like when Lovett snow-prised him earlier, he can’t stop his eyes from crinkling up in delight.

Usually, when Lovett is with a guy he likes, and especially so when they’re getting intimate, he tries to censor himself, tries to rein in the more ridiculous aspects of his personality. With Tommy, he doesn’t bother; Tommy knows what he’s getting into, with Lovett. And he clearly likes it, for some reason. Weirdo.

So, when Tommy is moving inside him and Lovett suddenly remembers Tommy’s reaction to one of his offhand jokes during the movie, Lovett goes with his first impulse. A post-coital Lovett had remarked that McClane and Gruber should “take their cowboy roleplay to the bedroom,” and at the word “roleplay,” Tommy had tensed up and blushed. Back then, Lovett had chickened out of suggesting that he and Tommy should engage in some roleplay later, but now, in the moment, he dives right in.

“Oh, yes, Mr. McClane,” he moans, trying it out.

Tommy loses the rhythm for a moment, glaring down at Lovett, but then he just keeps moving wordlessly, that delectable torso of his flexing, free for Lovett to touch, now.

And then, when Tommy speeds up a fraction, obviously starting to chase his orgasm, Lovett ups the ante further.

“Harder, Mr. McClane, yes! Yes! Buttfuck me!”

Tommy is too far in it to slow down, now, but he laughs helplessly as his hips rabbit.

“You’re such a… fucking… monster,” he groans out, and comes.

Tommy collapses down on Lovett, but after a moment he lifts his head from Lovett’s heaving chest to pant, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!”

Giggling breathlessly, Lovett kisses Tommy’s sweat-damp forehead. “Merry Christmas, Tommy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, [SelfRescuingPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfRescuingPrincess/), who brainstormed non-traditional Christmas movies with me, and came up with the amazing word "snow-prised".
> 
> Also, come check out my [podsa tumblr](https://abriefshoutouttosomeminutiae.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
